


Night of the Hunter

by Kataclysm22



Series: Inheritance Cycle AUs [4]
Category: The Inheritance Cycle - Christopher Paolini
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, But warning to be safe, Dragons, Eventual Romance, F/F, F/M, Fantasy, Gore, Graphic Violence, Historical Divergence, M/M, More dub-con than non-con, Sexual Content, Sexual Violence, non-canon relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-10
Updated: 2018-02-05
Packaged: 2019-01-31 14:10:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12683493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kataclysm22/pseuds/Kataclysm22
Summary: AU Inheritance Re-write. Vrael didn't die that night upon Edoc'sil. The world is a different place now, but he's determined to restore what was lost. After Selena's death, Brom raises Eragon as his son amongst the New Order, while Morzan maintains a tight hold on Selena's firstborn, molding Murtagh into a cold-blooded killer. The struggle wages on; Eragon and Saphira must determine their place in a hostile world, and fight to defeat a king more cunning than Galbatorix ever was. When the Night of the Hunter arrives... will they be ready?





	1. Edoc'sil

Lightning cracked overhead, illuminating the night sky in a stunning display of nature's raw, primal power. Upon the side of the mountain, two figures grappled with one another, each trying to gain the upper-hand over the other. A blade the color of snow flared brightly under the light, held aloft in a striking position by a lithe man in tan robes. His long, silver hair flowed down his back, jerking with every swift movement of his sword.

Vrael had come here to recover from the injury he'd sustained in Doru Araeba, but the young betrayer had followed him all the way to Edoc'sil. How he had found him… that was another matter. It seemed nowhere in the whole of the kingdom was safe from those who would do him harm. As he battled with the young Rider, the wound in his side continued to steadily leak out a stream of blood, running down his breeches and down to his boots. Every meeting of their swords, every dodge of an attack, a sharp burst of pain exploded along his ribs.

But the Last Rider would not be so easily beaten. His wards, which were far superior to that of the Oathbreaker, protected him from any magical attacks the traitor might carry out. And they both were tired from their previous battle. As far as Vrael knew, none of his comrades had survived the holocaust on Vroengard. His pupil, Oromis, could not help him now, having been tortured by those they once considered brethren and safely hidden in Ellesméra, along with his dragon. Galbatorix's dragon, the one he had enslaved with dark magic, had been killed on Doru Araeba. The only other dragons alive belonged to his accursed Forsworn, not to mention the countless Eldunarí they had captured and subdued over their long campaign. Vrael wanted nothing more than to weep for such a monumental loss, but there was no time for that now.

Sparks flew through the darkened sky as their blades met. Vrael's Rider-sword was far superior to the castle-forged steel that Galbatorix wielded, but his wounds made him weak and slow. Every movement felt like it sapped more and more of his strength. He would not last much longer in this way; this had to end, and quickly.

The Oathbreaker parried his strike, fixing him with a frightful gaze and a wicked grin. Vrael stumbled backwards, taking care to stay away from the edge of the outcropping they currently found themselves on. He swiped at the traitor again, desperate to remain on the offensive. Vrael knew that the moment he was forced to resort to defending himself, he would be lost.

"This is the end, old man," Galbatorix sneered cruelly. "Surrender while you still can, and I may yet spare your life!" This last statement was made with a hasty cut at Vrael's middle, which blessedly missed him by a few inches.

"Don't insult me with your lies," Vrael grunted, shuffling away from his opponent and angling himself so that his back faced the ruined outpost.

They'd been circling one another for quite some time; it was time for him to gain the advantage, otherwise he was as good as dead. Galbatorix watched him as a snake observes its prey, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, backward and forward and back again. His swordpoint was angled towards the leader of the Dragon Riders, poised to skewer him at the first opportunity. Vrael lowered Islingr ever-so-slightly, preparing for the inevitable strike. And when it did finally come, Vrael was ready for it.

Galbatorix lunged at him, a wild, deranged look in his eye, aiming to stab his blade straight through the Elder Rider's stomach. But Vrael had enough strength left in him yet. Summoning the very last vestiges of his power, he jumped to the side, agile as a cat, and watched as the blade sang past him. The traitor had not been expecting this, and Vrael saw that all of his weight had been placed behind the jab, sending him catapulting forward and stumbling over his feet.

This was his moment; he could not waste it again.

With a vicious slash, the Oathbreaker's hamstrings were sliced open, rendering him immobile. Galbatorix screamed in agony, falling to his stomach upon the dark rock. A steady gush of crimson blood came pouring out of both wounds on the backs of his legs, pooling underneath him. Vrael walked forward slowly, standing over him with Islingr positioned under his chin, pushing up so that Vrael might look him in the eye.

Black as pitch, and void of any trace of goodness, Galbatorix's eyes filled with hatred as he gazed up at the man who had defeated him. Vrael kicked at the paltry sword that lay at his feet, sending it flying across the outcropping and straight over the edge, tumbling down the mountainside.

"There is no word in the Ancient Language to describe the atrocities you have committed," Vrael intoned quietly, fighting to subdue his rage. So much loss... it was nearly unfathomable. He'd lived over a thousand years, and in all that time, never had he experienced such sorrow. As the dragons had died, their voices had filled the skies, a haunting chorus that would forever be branded in his memories.

"History will remember me as a revolutionary!" Galbatorix spat, trying in vain to struggle to his feet. "Your order was corrupt, and now it is finished! _I_ will be forever remembered!"

"No," the elf said coldly, setting his jaw. "Whether it be tomorrow, or a hundred years from now, I will scour your name from the memories of all who ever lived, and _will_ ever live. My powers will return. But you... Tonight, you die."

Galbatorix opened his mouth to shout something further, but his breath was cut short as his head separated from his body. Vrael did not even flinch as the traitor's blood sprayed across his face and clothing. Mouth still opened wide, the head rolled off to the side, finally stalling and leaving those malevolent, black eyes staring at the sky. A crack of thunder shook the mountain as Vrael fell to his knees, sagging under the weight of what he'd just accomplished. But also under the weight of all he had lost.

_Alone._

The word rang through him like a death knell. He could feel the emptiness, a hollow pit in his heart where once the energy of magic and life had flowed. But as the Oathbreaker's life-force ebbed away into the void of death, the spell he himself had cast only hours ago restored his memory. A cache of eggs and Eldunarí—including his own, beloved Umaroth—lay safely hidden back on Vroengard. The Riders were not yet finished; they would rise again, better than before. A small measure of hope swelled in the ancient elf's chest, and he was able to sit up a little straighter.

Thuviel's madness had destroyed a large portion of Doru Araeba, but Vrael knew he could restore it, given some time to regain his strength. Until then, he would just have to trust that no one with any knowledge of the Vault had survived; or if they had, that they were not an enemy. And while he recovered from his injuries, he would lie in wait within the safety of Du Weldenvarden. Morzan and the other traitors would have already taken Ilirea; it was too late for them, but not for the rest of the world.

Driving Islingr's point into the ground, Vrael braced against the sword and struggled to his feet. The wound in his side pained him greatly, but it was a wound of the flesh, and would heal, either by his hand or another's. But the wounds of his heart... those would take longer to heal. The memories flashed through him then, of all the signs he'd missed, the choices he could have made differently that would have stopped Galbatorix before he ever began. Such promise...wasted...

But no, there was naught that could have been done. The darkness that lived within the Oathbreaker had been there long before his dragon, Jarnunvösk, had been killed. Vrael took consolation in the fact that the pitiable dragon the traitor had forced to serve him was now dead, destroyed along with so many others after Thuviel's foolish suicide. How it angered him, thinking about the wild and bonded dragons that had been killed in the blast. Good intentions had nearly decimated their order in a single moment... But Thuviel was not to blame; all hope had seemed lost. Vrael could not blame anyone but the dead man at his feet.

It was an aberrant thought, to know that almost every member of his order was dead. The dragons would have gone extinct in one fell swoop, if not for the brave actions of a few Riders. What kind of monster tries to exterminate an entire race of creatures for his own pride?

Vrael looked once more at that monster, cleft in two pieces. His struggle was not over, though; not even remotely. Galbatorix's followers were powerful in their own right, and Morzan was more cunning than Galbatorix would ever be. They would have to be dealt with, and quickly,

But for now, Vrael would leave this place, and attempt to gather up the scraps of what his life had been. And Edoc'sil, along with Vrael himself, would remain as they always had been... Unconquerable.


	2. A Womb of Ashes

Nearly a year had passed before Vrael was strong enough to even contemplate returning to the island. Those in Ellesméra had begun to worry about him, and so he had pushed himself to regain his strength, perhaps harder than he should have. But it was becoming stifling, suffering their pitying gazes and pretending not to hear when they whispered. That they whispered at all was a significant point of annoyance for him. In a time, not too long ago, Vrael was met with deference and utmost respect wherever he went. As the Elder Rider, he was afforded equal parts of power and responsibility. The hatchlings and their soon-to-be Riders knew him as a figure not to be trifled with, but also as one who could be depended upon without question; the oldest, wisest, and strongest amongst them. But now... now he felt like nothing more than a shadow of his former self.

The truth of it was... he did not rightly understand it on his own, why it was taking so long to heal from the battle. The wound Galbatorix had dealt him took nearly three months to heal completely, even under the constant care of some of the more gifted spellcasters. And his body had not been the only thing to suffer the effects. His magic, as well, was weaker than he could recall it ever having been in recent memory. To this day, it required a great deal of effort to communicate with Umaroth over the long distance that separated them. Vrael thought that Thuviel's spell might have had something to do with it, but he couldn't be sure.

Whatever the case was, ten months later found him still slightly straining to cast anything more than the most basic of spells. It was absolutely infuriating, being bound by some unknown and unseen force. And Oromis was in no better shape than himself. Those black-hearted traitors had done unspeakable, unforgivable things to him, and it had altered his mind and his abilities. No longer could he cast a spell requiring more than a very small amount of energy, having been isolated from the flow of earthly energy around him. And Glaedr had only recently healed from the blow Formora had dealt him, separating his left foreleg and leaving only a gnarled, white stump in its place.

But the one small joy Vrael been able to hold onto was that they were not the only ones to have survived the Fall. Oromis' young pupil, Brom, had managed to escape death on Doru Araeba. His dragon, however, had not been so lucky. Even now, so many months later, the boy had not been able to bring himself to recount how it had happened. While he was certainly a strong magician, Brom was young, and brash from the grief of losing his partner-of-heart-and-mind. Vrael knew the boy blamed himself for his dragon's death; they'd disobeyed Oromis, after all, and raced off to join their comrades in the defense of Vroengard. Admirable, to be sure, but foolhardy and carrying terrible consequences. Vrael could see that his choices still haunted him, in the way that he sometimes fell into his own mind and no longer saw the world around him.

They'd discussed it at length over the last few months, what was to be done. Did they return to the island and try to salvage it? Or did they gather the last remaining eggs and Eldunarí and attempt to rebuild elsewhere; leave the island to rot as a morbid shrine to the glory of the Past Order? Oromis, for his part, felt it was too soon to reveal themselves as having survived the Fall. But Brom... his youth and bravado outweighed his sense in some matters.

"We cannot let them think we are defeated!" the young Rider argued hotly, the same as he had every day before. Vrael watched him passively from his backless, curule chair. The seat had been held by his predecessors for thousands of years, yet for the first time in the entirety of his incumbency, Vrael felt very small ensconced in the diminutive wooden chair.

"Take care with your tone, Brom," Oromis sighed from his place across the circular room. The debilitating seizures Kialandí's black magic had left him with made it difficult for him to properly function for very long. Vrael could hear the tiredness in his voice now, though it was still late morning. Brom looked back to his teacher, chest heaving with his passion. But seeing his former master so diminished seemed to give him pause.

The young Rider looked back to Vrael and bowed at the waist, mumbling a quick apology. Vrael waved his hand dismissively, eyes cast at the floor. How could he blame the boy? His feelings mirrored his own in a way, though Vrael's desolation more often presented itself in the form of melancholy and isolation than outright rage.

The Elder Rider released a pent up sigh, feeling his chest concave. He'd grown thinner these long months, finding no motivation to care for himself in the absence of duty. "Would that I possessed your fervor, young Rider," the ancient elf said quietly, closing his blue-grey eyes. "But the fact remains that we _are_ defeated, no matter how greatly we may wish it were not so. We three are all that remains of the past... Umaroth is too far away to be of any help, and Glaedr is not able to go on as he once did... And you are without your dragon, Brom-vodhr." Suddenly, he found himself gripping the oak wood of his chair, harder than he'd intended. When he released his grip, angry red lines appeared in his hand.

"I may be without my dragon," Brom continued quietly, losing none of his intensity, "but I am not without my abilities, or the training you have provided me." This last statement was aimed at Oromis, who remained staring steadfastly at the floor.

_Indiscretion may yet be our downfall, young one,_ Glaedr's deep, warm voice filled the room. Though he could not fit inside the chamber, he'd been listening outside all the same. As the last living dragon that still owned his soul, his opinion realistically held more weight than any of theirs did. The survival of his species was at stake here; that was not something Vrael was willing to risk.

_I mean no disrespect_ — Brom began. But he was cut off abruptly by a deep, rumbling growl.

_Then hold your tongue,_ Glaedr snapped back. Vrael watched as the young Rider's shoulders slumped, and some of his passion dimmed. _As it stands right now,_ the golden dragon continued, _I am the last of my kind. The eggs and the Eldunarí hidden on Vroengard are the future of my race, and the future of our very order. Without them, we are well and truly lost. This is not something we can risk by acting without thought or prudence._

_What would you have us do?_ This time, it was Oromis who spoke.

Glaedr was silent for what seemed a very long time. But when he did finally speak, the weight of his words settled over all of them like a mantle. _We must wait,_ he intoned somberly. _The Fall is still too fresh; they will look for survivors to return to the island first, before searching anywhere else. If we act too quickly, it might carry terrible ramifications. Cuaroc and the other Eldunarí will protect the eggs, if anyone happens upon them. But that is not likely. Until the threat of discovery is diminished, we cannot risk it._

_If we wait,_ Brom replied, hands clenched at his sides, _then that only serves to give the Forsworn more time to hunt down any other survivors. We still don't know if they're out there, and the longer we wait, the more we leave to die._

_There are no survivors..._ he said, fighting against the tightening in his chest as they looked at him, faces still. It was a fact he had only recently come to terms with himself, but it was still difficult to stomach their shock.

_How can you be so sure?_ Oromis asked, uncertainty in his voice. He shifted slightly in his seat, wincing from some unseen pain.

_An emptiness... deep within my heart..._ he explained slowly, trying to work out the best way so that they might understand. It was an ability that only the Elder Rider possessed; a burden he or she alone had to carry. _I have always been able to sense the Riders, wherever they were and whatever they were doing, be they newly initiated or ancient and established. It became another piece of myself, in a way. The Riders and their dragons... their energies were always_ there _. I do not know how to explain it... but where their life-force once dwelled, there is only darkness now... A hollow aching that I carry with me every day..._

"That cannot be!" Brom cried aloud, fists now shaking with how tightly he gripped them. "There must be someone... _Any_ one!"

"There is not," Vrael said with a sense of finality. Did the boy not understand? For months now, he'd lain awake every night and struggled against his own limitations to search for them. Though his powers had weakened since the battle upon the mountain, this was something innate to his position. Yet every night, his search had been fruitless, and his sorrow only deepened.

"If there truly is no one left," Oromis began slowly, his voice strained, "then we are resigning ourselves to leave the people defenseless against the Wyrdfell that remain. With their leader slain by your own hand, we cannot know their plan, nor which of them is at the helm now. Vrael-elda... it is our sworn duty as Dragon Riders to protect the peoples of—"

"Do not speak to me of our _duty_ , Oromis," Vrael snapped harshly, throwing the former Council member an icy glare. "We have already failed on that front; there is nothing left of our commission to honor... The best we can hope for now is to salvage what has been left behind in the wake of destruction, and forge ahead. Whatever obligations we once held, we must forget them now. The world has changed... and so we must change with it."

"Then they have already won," Brom seethed darkly, taking a few steps towards the Elder Rider. "We have given them their victory!"

"And so we have," Vrael replied, unperturbed. "The Wyrdfell and their mindless beasts will rule the land from here on out... for as long as _we_ allow it."

"What do you mean?" Oromis questioned.

_I believe I understand, Vrael-elda,_ Glaedr chimed in. _We will let them grow fat and lazy on the thermals of their victory._ They could hear the shuffling of his wings and felt the ground shake as he moved outside the room.

"Precisely." Struggling slightly, Vrael stood up out of his chair and clasped his long-fingered hands at his waist. The two other Riders watched him expectantly. "In our current state, we can do nothing to combat the Wyrdfell and their treachery," he continued quietly. But his voice did not waver; a little of the Elder Rider that had once been showed himself now in the straightness of his spine and the hard set to his jaw. "It would be a grievous folly to attempt any retribution at the present moment. So we will lie in wait, until the time is right, and anticipate that they will eventually reveal their hand. While they rest on the laurels of their supposed victory, we _will_ return to Vroengard, and strengthen our Order once again. This is the only choice presented before us."

Silence reigned for several tense moments after Vrael finished speaking. Oromis, for his part, seemed resolved. But the fire with which Brom looked at him... Vrael knew that their disagreement would not see an end any time soon.

Brom opened his mouth to speak—presumably to present one such disagreement—but was swiftly silenced by the door to their chamber being flung open and slamming against the curved wall. The three Riders shifted their attention to the intrusion, Brom having already drawn his steel sword. But the elf who stood before them presented no threat; he wore the livery of the queen's household.

"Forgive the interruption, Vrael-elda," the elf said quickly, bowing and showing due respect to the Riders. "I bring an urgent message from Queen Islanzadí."

Vrael inclined his head, and said, "Speak quickly then."

The elf looked at the three Riders in turn. "She bids you all attend her at once. A message has just arrived from Ilirea." Vrael's heart suddenly began to beat rapidly in his chest. They had not heard from the last bastion of elves stationed in Ilirea for months now, and they had all feared the worst.

"What message?" Oromis asked impatiently, laboring to his feet and heavily leaning on the arm of his chair.

"It's the Wyrdfell, Shur'tugal," the messenger continued darkly. "They have overrun the city and killed the human king. Ilirea is lost."

Vrael fought the urge to fall back into his seat. It seemed they did not need to wait long for the Forsworn to reveal their hand after all.

 

* * *

 

_The world was on fire..._

Morzan braced against the window ledge as the southern quarter of the city burned, consumed by dragonfire. Screams echoed off the buildings and cobblestone streets, ringing in his ears as a beautiful chorus of chaos. Flaming debris fell from the windows of the taller buildings, and from the homes... he watched in manic glee as desperate people flung themselves to a swift death. Smoke and ash choked the sky, veiling the world in a blanket of darkness. The dark clouds reflected the reds and oranges of the conflagration below, making it seem as though the very sky was burning too.

_A beautiful sight,_ he thought to himself, allowing a smile to come to his face. From where he stood in the citadel's tallest tower, he could survey almost half of the entire city. Soldiers—conscripted into his service under threat of mutilation and death—patrolled the streets, corralling those who had survived and fled the inferno. But there was no escape now. If they did not find their death on the ground, it would certainly find them from the sky.

As if on cue, a horrible screeching filled the air, and the stones beneath his feet shuddered. A great buffet of air swept over him, and a massive shadow fell across the citadel. Red scales flashed brightly against the flames, and Morzan watched as his dragon circled lazily over the western quarter of the city, spitting out flames almost disinterestedly. For what felt like the thousandth time, Morzan attempted to reach out to the dragon with his mind. A spike of rage stabbed through his chest as that now all-too-familiar fog entered his head. There was nothing there, as there had been the day before... and all the days before since Galbatorix rose to power. Whatever those accursed dragons had done before their deaths, it had affected him and the others... not to mention their dragons. He could not even recall their names...

Where once there had been a vibrant connection of energy between them, now their dragons were nothing more than soulless beasts, possessing magic without knowing how to use it. This sometimes resulted in massive displays of raw, untamed power from the dragons. Morzan could admit that these occurrences were certainly useful... But unpredictable power was dangerous, and he found himself having to keep a close eye on the dragons. His own dragon had already nearly killed two of the others, on several occasions.

But the dragons had cooperated this time, and it had only taken Ilirea less than a week to fall under the vicious assault of the Forsworn. The pitiful forces that remained were no match for the twelve of them; although their dragons had been reduced to little more than mindless animals, fire could yet kill. The people that only yesterday had lived under the peaceful banner of the Broddring Kingdom were learning that lesson all too well now.

His gaze travelled down, far below him, to the gates of the citadel. One side of them lay partially collapsed and still slightly smoking. The stone that had stood guard for a thousand years was now charred black from dragonfire, barely standing upright. And upon the battlements, impaled upon a pike, sat the head of King Angrenost, dipped in pitch to preserve it from decay. Morzan could still hear his pitiful whimpering as he'd begged for his life and the life of his family. A weak man, incapable of protecting himself or his people. How the citizens of his kingdom had suffered so long under such cowardice, Morzan would never understand.

But now... now they would know what true power and prosperity felt like. It would take time, and healthy doses of fear to recondition them, but Morzan was confident that he could manage the task. Galbatorix's vision had been limited, his imagination lacking a certain vividness and tenacity to make his glorious dreams become reality. The others had followed him after he made pretty speeches and convinced them that they'd all been wronged in some way by the Old Order. A few of them, Morzan included, had allowed their greed to overtake their honor; he was not too proud to admit it, even to himself. He'd had little in the way of honor to begin with.

After Galbatorix's shameful defeat at the hands of Vrael, it had taken an enormous effort by Morzan to convince them to carry on. Each of them had been resigned to go their separate ways when the news had reached them. Only Morzan had believed they could finish the plan, reach the ultimate goal. And now, here they were. On top of the world, with no one strong or able enough to stand in their way. The power alone was enough to make him drunk.

But he could not allow himself to get carried away. If this plan of his was to work, he'd have to be smart about it. Galbatorix had allowed his madness to outweigh his sense, and in some small way, Morzan had allowed him to destroy himself. It was foolish to go up against Vrael alone; even wounded, the old man was ancient and powerful beyond all reckoning. In the end, Galbatorix only had himself to blame.

"It's a beautiful thought, isn't it?" he mused to himself, still gazing out over the city. "The world is burning, and from the ashes shall a new world be born." He thought of the three eggs he now held in his possession, the last dragon eggs in existence. The elves had been fools to leave the eggs here, thinking they'd be safe. No matter what it took, Morzan would find the Riders destined for these eggs, and forge an army that no man could ever hope to contend against.

Suddenly, the hair on the back of his neck stood straight up. Someone had entered the room—he believed it had been Angrenost's study at one time—quiet as a cat. Without turning, Morzan knew who it was that had joined him in the tower. His fist ground against the stone of the window sill, and his teeth began to clench painfully.

"Why do you bother me so soon after our victory?" he spat venomously, feeling his brow furrow. "Have the pit vipers already gathered?"

"Kialandí wishes to know what you want done with the courtiers," the silken voice responded. Against his better judgment, that voice sent a shiver down Morzan's spine.

"Then why does he not ask me so himself? Are you now his dog as well as his whore?" Morzan turned and faced the elf woman, staring her down with his cutting gaze. But his intimidation never seemed to have any affect on Formora. Perhaps it was because she was an elf; or perhaps, because she was as ruthless as the rumors said.

She sniffed at him slightly, showing no indication that his words had affected her. "His wounds still trouble him," she replied, hooking her thumb through the leather belt she always wore. A collection of dragonbone-hilted knives shone dully in the dim light of the room, secured to the belt with brass buckles.

Morzan chuckled darkly. "Bested by a cripple... how pathetic..."

"The cripple's dragon was not nearly as crippled as his Rider at that time," she bit back harshly. "But I remedied that situation quickly, if you'll recall."

"Would that you had finished the job." _That_ seemed to shake her very slightly. Her eyes widened infinitesimally, but it was enough to satisfy him. Morzan could feel his ire rising from deep within his chest, and it was a struggle to keep it stamped down. They had won a decisive victory that day; he would not allow himself to fall victim to Formora's trap. "Where are they now?" he continued. "My old teachers... With any luck, they'll have died in some field and are nothing more than bones bleached by the sun."

Formora hesitated for a fraction of a second, but it did not escape Morzan's notice. "We have not been able to locate them," she replied sullenly.

A deathly hush fell over the room, even as Morzan stalked across the floor so that they stood mere inches apart. All he could hear was the steadiness of his own breath, and the beating of his heart in his chest. His fingers found her throat as a cat finds a mouse, digging into the supple flesh until his nails drew blood. Formora at least did him the honor of looking a little frightened now, instead of wearing her usual, cold exterior. Eyes like jewels of amber stared up at him, wide with fear. Her hands gripped his wrist, trying in vain to pull him away.

"How easy it would be," he mused quietly, inspecting her face as one might inspect a work of art; intensely focused, but with an air of detachment. "To crush your throat would be nothing. Even now, I can feel your wards slipping. You are tired from the battle, Formora. Rest awhile... when you've recovered your strength, take that beast of yours and _find them._ Do you understand me?"

She knew better than to continue struggling against him, and so she nodded slightly, gasping a little as his grip continued to tighten. There was a certain thrill he got from seeing her like this, powerless and trembling beneath him. But he needed her to remain loyal, so he released her and quickly healed the cuts on her throat and the bruises that had already started forming. She took a few steps back, holding her own hand to her throat and glaring at him.

Morzan could practically see as she swallowed her pride and bowed at the waist. "It shall be done," she muttered darkly. When she straightened up and fixed her gaze back on him, Morzan could see her fury brewing there.

"Take Enduriel and Savrai with you," he added as she turned away. Formora halted mid-step and half-turned back towards him, her dark hair curtaining part of her angular face.

"I don't need _their_ help," she hissed.

Morzan allowed himself a small smirk. "When you allowed Glaedr and Oromis to escape," he explained simply, "you lost my trust. If you wish to gain it back, Formora... you'll do as I say. Take them with you; find the traitors... It's a simple enough task. As for the courtiers, tell Kialandí to gather them in the Great Hall. I'll be down shortly to deal with them."

The force of her gaze would have caused a lesser man to wither. But Morzan was not such a man, and he returned her gaze with equal strength. After a few moments of terse silence, she nodded her head quickly and stalked from the room without another word, slamming the door behind her as she went.

Morzan stood in the middle of the empty room, staring at the blank space where she'd just been. Though he stood stock still, his mind was racing. There were many things to be done, each task more intricate than the last. It would require the absolute unquestioning loyalty of each of Galbatorix's disciples; _Forsworn_ they were called. Of all the others—the twelve of them that remained, anyways—Formora was likely to give him the most trouble. But she would bow to him eventually... one way, or another.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> P.S. (Quick content note: Morzan is a real bad dude intentionally. Whenever he pops up and it's required, I'll give a discretionary warning.)


	3. Graves Amongst Gardens

When they did finally embark upon their return to the island, it was deep in the heart of winter. Along their way out of Du Weldenvarden, Brom was able to pick up bits of pieces of information concerning the outside world. According to a swordsmith in Osilon, Morzan had been holed up in Ilirea—or Uru'baen, as it was referred to now—for nigh on six months, slaughtering the nobles who defied him and grooming the ones who did not. It was apparently a regular occasion to see any number of the Forsworn patrolling the land, burning small farms and villages without cause or recourse, and moving on as if it was nothing. The people lived in abject terror of one day seeing a dragon's shadow fall across their homes. Brom did not recognize the world that surrounded him now, although it had only been a short time since the Riders' Fall.

As they carefully traversed the northern sector of Alagaësia, it was difficult not to notice the barren fields and charred remains of the villages that had once been there. All along the North Sea and the Anora River, they found mounds of snow grouped together in odd shapes; after brushing away the layers of snow, Brom had found blackened beams that had presumably once supported homes and businesses. And on more than one occasion, it was not only the charred remains of buildings they found, but of their inhabitants as well.

Their travelling was slow, as Oromis' affliction caused them to stop frequently to allow him rest. Glaedr had not accompanied them on this surveying trip, naturally, but it would have been far easier for them if he had. Many years had passed since the last time Brom had found himself needing to walk for so long and so far. Saphira had always been there, and he found himself not for the first time flitting tears away from his eyes at the thought of her. It was as if the wound was still fresh, only dealt yesterday, though it had been a year and a half now. Part of him felt it was foolish to still mourn for her... but then he realized... he would mourn her the rest of his life. A piece of his soul had died right alongside her, and there was nothing in this world that could fill the void she'd left behind.

Brom tried not to speak of her with Oromis and Vrael. He knew they already thought him to be brash and foolhardy; there was no need for them to think him weak on top of all that. While he was certain they would understand his devastation, he was not altogether comfortable discussing it with the two of them. After all, both of their dragons were still alive, in one capacity or another. Could they truly empathize with the emptiness Brom felt inside of himself?

The ancient elves were currently sitting in stoic silence next to the small fire he'd built, warming themselves and steeping in their own thoughts. It set him on edge, the way they could remain silent and staring into the flames for hours on end. Brom wanted fervently to keep moving, not to stop until they'd reached Narda, their final destination before finding a boat to sail to Vroengard. But he was not the leader of this expedition, and Vrael valued caution above all else in this regard.

It had taken months of campaigning and daily beseeching for Brom to even convince him that now was the time to return. The reports that reached them from outside the forest told that the Forsworn were busy trying to subdue the Southern region, focusing all of their attention on a few holdouts. With winter coming on, they'd be returning to Ilirea to hunker down for the freezing months, more than likely. And the three of them could reasonably move about bundled in their cloaks and scarves to conceal their faces. Eventually, it had taken Oromis' agreement for Vrael to finally yield. He was still the Elder Rider, but in these turbulent times, the old elf had become slightly more democratic.

Brom was glad for it now, as he sat dug into the snow with his knees up to his chin, shivering against the brittle wind that blew down from the north. They were approaching Ceunon, and would arrive there within the week; he was anxious to see if the place still stood, or if it had been reduced to little more than ashes like the other villages they'd seen. Many years ago, when he'd still been green in his training, he and Saphira had visited the city, along with Morzan and his dragon. They'd been treated kindly by the people there, and he had enjoyed fishing upon the sea, swooping over the waves as Saphira and Morzan's dragon sank their paws into the water and brought back mountains of fish.

As he bathed in the memory, that strange tingling feeling that accompanied every thought of the Forsworn entered his mind. It was becoming familiar to him now, not being able to remember the dragons' names; he thought of them often, and dreamed of killing them by his own hand. Morzan had once felt like a brother to him, though he realized now the sentiment had never been returned. But there were others that he had been close with, counting them as true friends. Looking back now, it was easy for Brom to see where the lies had been spun and the treachery had lurked. One of them—a human woman by the name of Vallah—had even been his bedfellow at one time.

Oddly enough, that betrayal didn't sting as deeply as Morzan's did. He and Oromis had spoken at length about him over the last year and a half, and his former teacher had admitted to him that he'd been worried about Brom and the way Morzan treated him. How he had never seen it for himself, Brom could never quite say. A part of him had always looked up to Morzan, and yearned for his approval. Morzan was strong and handsome and so sure of himself, where Brom was anything but those things. He'd aspired to be like Morzan, in many ways... It all seemed so clear now, looking back on his youth. What a fool he'd been—

"Where is your mind this evening, Brom?" Vrael's somber voice cut through his thoughts, snapping him back to the present. As Brom looked around, he saw that the sun had begun to sink on the horizon, and the cloudy sky was stained pink and orange. When he'd taken a seat by the fire, it had been afternoon still.

"The _evening_ seems to have snuck up on me," he mumbled, rubbing at the back of his neck. "In truth, I have been dwelling in the past."

Vrael hummed softly as he continued to gaze into the orange flames, which reflected in his storm-colored eyes like a glittering jewel. "A dangerous place to dwell," he said softly. "You must take care not to become mired down, or you will lose sight of the present."

Brom slid his gaze over to the Elder Rider, watching him closely. His shoulders seemed to sag more than they had recently, and there were lines beginning to form on his face. The elf seemed almost haggard, where he never had before. Brom could not help thinking Vrael himself had spent too much time dwelling in the past as of late.

Oromis shifted slightly atop the blanket Brom had laid down for him. It was a paltry barrier against the freezing ground, but he thought it better than nothing. "Though we must not lose ourselves to the past, we must strive to learn from it," he offered, framing it as a piece of sound advice. Though it was one Brom knew well already; he'd been kicking himself every day for the mistakes he'd made.

"Well, isn't that what we're trying to do now? Going back to the island and finding _new_ Riders?" The questions came out harsher than he'd intended, but that seemed to be happening more often than not nowadays. It frightened him sometimes to recognize the bitterness in his own heart, yet he found himself struggling to subdue it.

Oromis' grey eyes were upon him in an instant, sharp and reprimanding. Brom had to restrain himself from biting his own tongue; he'd forgotten they weren't supposed to speak aloud of what lay in wait for them on Vroengard, lest there be any prying ears hiding nearby. He offered his old teacher a look of apology and bowed his head, staring down into the snow beneath his feet. It had begun to turn brown under his boots, and slushy from the heat of his body. They would not be able to stay here much longer.

Brom stood up quickly and brushed the snow from his breeches, looking around them at the seashore and the tree line behind their small encampment. The two elves did not partake of meat, but he could feel his belly protesting at the infrequency of his meals, and knew that he needed to find some game. Stooping down to gather up his bow and quiver, he looked over at the two elves.

"I'm going to find some food," he explained gruffly, ignoring their admonishing looks.

As he turned his back to them and walked towards the trees, Brom could not help feeling like he was being carefully appraised. It didn't really matter, so much as it made him feel vaguely uncomfortable. The two elves were odd creatures, foreign in their beliefs and culture, and Brom had always had a distant sort of relationship with each of them, albeit in different ways. Oromis had been his teacher; there was a time in his life when he'd had to refer to him as "Master", and now to see him so diminished... It was disconcerting, and a difficult pill for him to swallow. As for Vrael, he was the Elder Rider, and a figure Brom had always held a sort of fearful respect for. Now they were all each other had, and he ended up just feeling awkward more often than not. And especially now that they found themselves travelling through the wilderness together... it had certainly shed light on things he thought not to have ever known.

He trekked through the snow-covered underbrush swiftly and silently, opting to use his bow and conserve the energy he would undoubtedly need when they resumed their journey later that night. A few paces past the tree line, he spotted rabbit tracks in the snow, leading towards a group of large boulders surrounded by low hedges. Spreading out his mind, he could sense the energy coming out of the warren, estimating there to be at least twenty rabbits within. He crossed to a short ash tree and plucked one of the thinner branches from the slim trunk. Splitting the twig, he was able to make a sort of rope that would serve for his trap. Within twenty minutes, the trap was laid. All he had to do then was wait for one of the creatures to venture out.

A little ways away from the warren was a copse of closely grouped evergreens, and he settled himself down with a vantage to where his trap lay. His bow lay across his lap, poised so that he could easily use it if the rabbit happened to go past the trap or escape from it. As he sat there in the ring of trees, he listened to the sounds of the forest, alert for anything that might seem amiss. But the only thing he heard were the few leaves that remained on the trees falling to the ground, and the soft patter of snow piling ever higher.

It was peaceful, in a way; he could almost forget all that had happened to him, and all that he faced in the future. But just as suddenly as his life had pivoted that day in Doru Araeba, the trap sprung and his dinner was caught, shattering the illusion that had formed around him. Brom decided to kill the creature there, instead of back at the camp; no reason to rile the elves up if he didn't have to. He took his meal back to their encampment and let it cook over the fire, eating it in quick silence and then keeping to himself until they were ready to continue on.

 

* * *

 

The months wore on as they labored ever southward, keeping off the roads and away from the towns they could feel were still populated. Yazuac and Daret still stood, and as they skirted around the last reaches of the Ninor River, Brom could sense Gil'ead in the distance, teeming with a large grouping of energy. Brom wanted desperately to go into one of the towns, if only to gather a little useful information. The only news he got was from other travelers on the road, where he masqueraded as a cobbler seeking work and travelling with his aging father and uncle... who were conveniently mute. This ruse gained him a few odd looks, but never any outright questions, for which he was thankful.

Winter was rapidly giving way to spring, and as best he could tell, the Forsworn were beginning to creep further to the west, setting their sites on the Spine. But of Morzan, there was never any word. He had not been spotted since the Capture of Ilirea; only his dragon—a monstrous red beast with long fangs and a short temper—had been seen, burning entire villages in one fell swoop. But Brom always kept his ears open and his vengeful desires close to the vest.

By the time they reached Woadark Lake, which would usher them towards Teirm, spring was in full bloom all across Alagaësia. Brom was disappointed with their pace, though he never let it show. It was unfair of him to begrudge Oromis, he knew that... but his anxiousness to return to Vroengard was seeming to overwhelm him the closer they got. But the more they traveled, the worse that the fits became, and Brom could see that it weighed on Oromis heavily. Though they never discussed it, he could see that his old teacher was in a constant state of pain. Vrael did what he could to lessen the effects of the seizures, but even he was not back to his full strength. They certainly were a raggedy bunch...

Another month of travelling along the coast found them at Narda, and Brom thought he might cry when he saw the haze of the city up ahead and the short wall that protected the fishing town. Altogether, it had taken them six months to reach Narda from Ellesméra, and Brom thought he'd lost at least two stone. The journey had been arduous, and there'd been little in the way of food, but it was all worth it to feel the relief he was experiencing now. Though their journey was not yet over, they were about a thousand miles closer than they had been a few months ago.

Brom's beard had grown long and scraggly during their travels, which he was immensely grateful for now. The people of Narda did not give him a passing glance as he walked the dusty streets. In fact, they seemed not to give one another more than a furtive nod or hurried wave as they went about their business. Brom supposed it was the atmosphere of fear he'd run into in every town they'd happened upon thus far, but it felt eerie all the same. He could remember Narda as it once had been, a bustling port city full of light and laughter. Now the faces of her people were grey and drawn, bleak under some crushing oppression.

It did not take Brom long to witness that very oppression in the flesh, hovering in the sky over the governor's castle where it sat upon a rocky crag, overlooking the city and the sea beyond. Dusty-rose colored scales sparkled brilliantly as the sea reflected against them, sending shimmering, white ripples upon the dragon's underbelly. While he could not recall the name of the dragon herself, Brom would know the man who sat upon her shoulders until his dying day.

Halvir Torricsson was a great bear of a man, hailing from Therinsford in the northern reaches of the Spine. His hair was a brown so dark it was almost black, and he favored a close-cropped beard and mustache. Coarse, dark hair covered his arms and barrel-like chest, and the man stood at least a head taller than everyone around him. Brom had known him well throughout their training as young men; he'd been a regular sparring partner of his, and his first choice for revelry at the tavern when the occasion called for it. Though his temper had been mighty when roused, he'd always seemed a tender, protective sort of man. Of all the Riders Brom had ever known, Halvir was the last he would have suspected of becoming one of the Forsworn.

He could not say what had changed in him, or if the ingredients necessary for his betrayal had been there all along, but Brom felt sad more than anything else as he watched him now. His dragon flapped her wings lazily, swinging her great head from side to side as she surveyed the city. Brom noticed it now, how the people of Narda stole quick glances at her as they hurried on their way. Though her scales were a soft pink color, her talons and eyes were black as pitch, giving her a lifeless appearance. He might not have been able to remember her name, but Brom certainly remembered that Halvir was the more amiable of the two.

_You would do well to keep moving,_ Oromis' voice suddenly rang in his head. _If Halvir spots you, he will most assuredly recognize you._ Brom sent him back a general feeling of agreement and then bowed his head into his chest, walking slowly and taking care to hug closely to the buildings. The aching of nostalgia began to fill his chest, and he quickly tried to banish it. Right now, the only thing he need concern himself with was finding a boat they could purchase to ferry them across the sea.

As inconspicuously as he could manage, Brom made his way towards the docks. He navigated the city streets off a vague memory of the last time he'd been here, but he did have to ask for directions at one point when he found himself in the city square. A blank-faced shopkeeper had steered him in the right direction without a word, and so he hurried on his way, keeping his head down. When he finally came to the docks, he was disheartened to see it mostly deserted. A sleek, crabbing vessel was docked at the pier closest to him, but all the other piers were empty.

Tentatively, Brom walked down the pier, cringing at every heavy fall of his boots. Whatever hopes he'd had of remaining unseen, they were long gone now. A big-bellied fisherman suddenly appeared at the railing of the boat, scanning the pier until his rheumy eyes found him and narrowed on the approaching stranger.

"Oy!" he shouted gruffly. "Who goes there!"

Brom took a deep breath to try and slow the racing of his heart, but it did little to help. He raised a hand in what he hoped was a friendly manner and removed the hood of his cloak from atop his head. "Someone who means ye no harm!" he called back, forcing his voice to adopt the native accent he had abandoned so long ago. With any luck, this fisherman would believe him to be a traveler from Kuasta and think on it no more. "I'm lookin' fer a boat, ta sneak up ta tha Crags. Can ye help me?"

"What're you goin' to the Crags for?" the man asked, a hint of suspicion in his voice. The Crags were a group of rocky islands at the very tip of Alagaësia, known for the bitter cold and deadly waves of the frigid sea. Luckily for Brom, he and Saphira had frequented the place to divulge in one of her favorite snacks. It was a convenient excuse.

He laughed slightly, as if to say he knew the idea sounded crazy. No one ever willingly went to the Crags, not if they didn't have a death wish. "Seal oil, if ye can believe it," he explained, rubbing at the back of his neck. "Tha stuff's worth its weight in gold down south." That part was true enough

"South?" the man questioned incredulously. "You must be stupider than you look, friend. Haven't you heard?" Brom shook his head emphatically, trying not to seem overjoyed at this prospect of news. "Those damned Riders, them's that killed all the rest, they've been capturin' cities up and down the coast. A trader from Teirm came by not more than a week ago, said they'd already got Kuasta, Belatona, and Feinster. Dras-Leona's not far behind, accordin' to him. Once Ilirea fell, the rest of 'em were easy."

"Aye... I noticed yer _friendly_ visitor," he replied with a jab of his thumb over his shoulder.

The fisherman slid his gaze up into the sky, and a dark look passed over his face as he spat at the deck of his ship. "Scaly demons with wings, more like," he said caustically. "The Dragon Riders were always the peacekeepers of this land... we never stopped to think the destruction they might bring."

A sharp pang ran through Brom's chest as he clamped his mouth into a thin line. He knew all to well the destruction just a few Riders had wrought upon their own people. Having been hidden away in Ellesméra, he couldn't imagine what these people had suffered, utterly defenseless against the Forsworn. The defeat was plain to see on their faces, and the way they walked the streets, fearful that each step might be their last.

"I'm aimin' for Aroughs and Eoam," he continued, trying to ingratiate himself with the fisherman. "Any news there?"

The man shook his head and wiped his greasy hands on his trousers. "Not that I've heard," he replied, looking back over his shoulder. He released a heavy breath and looked back at Brom with a friendly-enough smile. "Well, if you're damned fool enough to sail up there before Summer sets in... who'm I to stop ya. There's an old fishing yawl in the boathouse, over yonder—" he waved his hand towards Brom's left "—you're welcome to 'er for a hundred crowns."

Brom bristled slightly at the price, but made no argument; they were certainly in no position to bargain, and he could feel Oromis and Vrael urging him to hurry up and make the deal. So, with only a moment's reluctance, Brom agreed and counted out the necessary coins to give the fisherman. The man thanked him and then wished him good fortune before returning to whatever duties required his attention. Brom quickly replaced his hood before trekking down the pier to the boathouse to find the small vessel.

It was certainly large enough to hold the three of them comfortably, but Brom could not be certain if there was enough room for the supplies they would need as well. She was a two-masted rig, with a smaller mizzenmast on the aft, so far back that the mizzen boom hung out over the stern. All in all, Brom thought she was a fine looking ship, and one he could captain easily enough. From Narda, he estimated the sea journey would take them about a week. They would land on the shores of the Bay of Anurin, the easternmost bay on the island, and make their way to the capital from there.

But until night fell, they would remain in Narda, waiting for the opportune moment. Brom could only pray to the gods of his youth that Halvir and his dragon would not spot them. For if they did, the fate of the Riders was certainly doomed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick note: due to the severe lack of information we have on the Forsworn from canon material, there's gonna be a lot I'm having to make up. If you don't like something I do, feel free to let me know and I'll be happy to discuss my decision making process with you. :D


	4. Journey to the Wasteland

Dark gray clouds hung low over the mountain peaks when Vroengard finally came into their view. Vrael thought he'd never been happier to see the place, and it felt as though his heart might leap out of his chest. Their little vessel rocked perilously upon the turbulent ocean waves, yet he did not fear. As close as they were now, he could feel Umaroth's anticipation through their ever-strengthening bond.

The Bay of Anurin appeared before them through a hazy fog, exactly the same as he remembered it. There were the docks and the storehouses, waystations for supplies from the mainland to be inventoried. Steep stairs wound up the mountainside like a scar, visible even from here. The stairs crested at the divot between two mountain peaks, and beyond them... the valley he and countless others had called home only a short time ago.

"Have strength," Oromis suddenly said quietly. Vrael looked to him questioningly, but found that the elf's eyes were trained on the youngest of them. Brom stood at the fore of the ship, gripping the rail with white-knuckled ferocity. His brow was drawn heavily over his eyes in a deep scowl, and his jaw looked to be clenched painfully. Vrael noticed his arms trembling under the force of his grip, and his anger was rolling off him in palpable waves.

"The stench of death hangs in the air," Brom remarked solemnly, his voice oddly calm in comparison to his demeanor. "I can... Her bones are still here."

"As are the bones of many others," Vrael cut in quietly. "We will give them all the rites they deserve."

Brom looked at him darkly over his shoulder, but said nothing more. The ancient elf could see a tempest brewing in his mind, and worried at what he might be thinking. But there was naught to be done about it now. They were already here; there was no going back.

The sea carried them the rest of the way, drawing them up close to the sandy shore where Brom disembarked and secured their vessel to the dock. He lowered the gangplank and assisted Oromis onto the weathered platform, Vrael following closely behind. Slowly, they traversed down the dock; Vrael felt the boards sway and creak beneath his feet.

At the very moment Vrael's feet touched the land, he was overwhelmed with the force of magical energy, so much so that he swayed on shaky legs. Oromis fell to his knees and cried out painfully, gritting his teeth and slamming his eyes shut. The younger Rider dropped down next to him and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder, but Vrael could see the force was affecting him as well. It seemed the after-effects of Thuviel's spell had yet to dissipate fully.

Muttering a few words in the ancient language, Vrael crafted a protective barrier around the three of them, one that would follow them as they walked. It was not enough to bar the violent energy completely, but it was enough that they could at least stand beneath its pressure. Brom helped Oromis to his feet and wedged his shoulder underneath the elf's arm, supporting the bulk of his slight weight.

"What is this, Vrael-elda?" Brom questioned over his shoulder as they continued to walk. They passed by the storehouses, and had to cover their noses and mouths against the stench of rotten food. Vrael wondered at why the island wildlife had not ventured here and eaten the food long ago, but did not have time to dwell on the thought.

"Some kind of after-effect from Thuviel's folly," he remarked quietly, looking around them at the barren land. The ground here was brown and dead, where once wildflowers of every color had grown. "I have never experienced, nor even read about, anything similar to what he did. The spell that took his life... it must have poisoned the land where the blast reached."

They reached the bottom of the stony stairs, and Oromis was still breathing heavily, gritting his teeth. "Can you make it, Oromis-elda?" Brom questioned, shifting the elf's weight slightly. The elf's grey eyes swept up the steep mountainside, widening slightly as he shook his head. Brom didn't wait for any explanation, only shouldered the elf onto his back and began the long trek up the mountain. If Oromis' pride was wounded, he did not say anything. Just as well; there was no time for such things.

A half hour later found them at the divot between the two peaks, and the end of their arduous trek up the uneven stairs. As they crested the top, Vrael found himself struck still. It felt as if all breath left his body, and his feet seemed no longer connected to the ground. Brom stopped as well, letting out a heavy sigh and sliding Oromis gently to the ground. The three of them stayed like that for an interminable length, utterly shocked at the scene before them.

Vrael remembered the day he'd first come to the island vividly, though it was hundreds of years past. He couldn't remember ever having seen something so beautiful. Lush forests covered the island, broken up sporadically by rolling plains blanketed in tall, green grasses. Dragons of every color dotted the sky and swept over the vast land, sparkling in the dazzling sunlight. Umaroth had been little more than a hatchling then, and had been awed by the sight of dragons so much older and larger than himself. Their wonder and amazement had struck them still upon this very spot, but for a far different reason than the one Vrael found himself with now.

Where there had been ancient, towering trees now stood only burnt stumps and ashes. The land was charred black, and still smoldered in places, sending little wisps of white smoke snaking into the sky. Those same gray clouds hung low over the mountain peaks that ringed the valley, casting a shadow over all the land they could see. In the distance, Vrael could see what little remained of Doru Araeba. Her soaring towers and stone edifices were reduced to little more than rubble, tumbling overtop one another into a mass of debris. But more than that... mixed in with the ruins and the decay were the charred bones of the dead.

Oromis let out a strangled sort of sob, clutching at his chest in agony. Vrael had never been able to truly convey the depth of the destruction wrought here; now that he was seeing it with his own eyes, Vrael felt a wave of pity towards him. Brom, for his part, kept his face stony and controlled. But his eyes told a different story. They brimmed with tears as he surveyed the place he used to call home. Somewhere among these bones lay his own dragon, struck down alongside so many others. Vrael reached out to Umaroth, seeking consolation for the sorrow building within his own heart.

_There was naught you could have done,_ the dragon said solemnly, stroking his Rider with feelings of comfort. _The attack could not have been foretold, and Thuviel's own madness could not have been avoided. Do not shoulder any blame, my friend._

_I was responsible for all of them,_ Vrael replied morosely, feeling his chest tighten involuntarily. _They looked to me to lead them and I failed... I failed to save any of them._

_Yet you succeeded in securing future generations,_ his dragon said pointedly. _Not all is lost; you have returned, now the work can begin._

Vrael sighed deeply and turned to look at his companions once more. Brom stared at him stoically, his mouth clamped into a thin line and his eyes hard. "What now?" he questioned.

"To the vault," he replied simply, stepping forward onto what remained of the path down into the valley. It had once been a stone cobbled road, winding through the forest past different groupings of various buildings. But now... it was nothing more than a blackened scar upon the land, at times indistinguishable from the destruction around it. Instinct told him to follow this road, as he had many times before. But there was no use now. The trees that had once blocked the wagons from travelling were no more, and the buildings it once had granted access to lay in ruins.

At the first bend in the path, Vrael kept steadfastly straight, not even glancing at where the road would have led off to the left. Brom did not say anything, only followed quietly behind with Oromis leaning on his shoulder and limping heavily. They stirred up ash and soot where they walked, dirtying their garments and clogging their lungs. Brom cast the spell to protect them this time, as Vrael was too focused maintaining the shield to protect them from the strange magical force.

The thing that struck Vrael most was the unsettling quiet that surrounded them. Once, not very long ago, this island had teemed with life of all varieties. Humans, elves, and dragons; mammals and insects and birds of every shape and size. Now, not even the wind stirred the decay. Every now and again, a charred branch would disintegrate into ashes, causing the other branches and limbs resting atop it to fall, but the sound was swallowed up quickly, disappearing as if it never had been there in the first place. At one point, Vrael swore he saw the shadow of... _something_ dipping in between the ruins of what had once been a home, but when he looked in earnest, he saw nothing.

Their small party continued on down the gently sloping hill, aiming for the valley floor and the outskirts of the main city. The ruins of one of the smaller outposts, commonly called Phistas, rose up before them, remarkably still mostly intact. An overlook at the very top of the tower had been completely destroyed--the blackened stone pieces of it laying at the base of the building--but the rest of the outpost was still standing. Just over a year ago, this place had been manned by Apprentices training for life out in the field. Now it was nothing more than an empty husk, filled with the ghosts of Riders long dead.

Their trek to the center of the island took them the whole morning. From what they could tell--though the clouds made it nearly impossible--it was shortly after midday when they came upon the crumbling walls of Doru Araeba. The fortifications had once been an impressive sight to behold; polished granite and marble made up the bulk of the exterior wall, all except for the main gates. Gigantic and imposing, the gates had been made of bronze banded with iron, so heavy that it was impossible to move them except for dragon-power or magic. They'd been crafted right here on the island by elven smiths, magically engraved with scenes depicting the history of the Riders.

Those very same gates were nothing more than twisted hunks of metal now. One half lay semi-attached to the wall, hanging off its hinges perilously. The other half was on the ground, mangled beyond recognition. Sadness tugged at Vrael's heart for the loss of such a treasure, but it did not compare to the loss littered all around him. With almost every step they took, they had to dodge the bones of dragons and their Riders alike. Some were little more than piles of ash, but others were still recognizable, though unless their Eldunari had survived, there would be no way to identify the bodies.

Vrael glanced at the young Rider, and saw the depth of his own pain reflected in Brom's eyes. The only life any of them had ever really known lay decimated before them, razed to the ground by the folly of others. What could he say at a time like this? Faced with such ruin and despair, words seemed inadequate to describe his anguish; even more than that, what consolation could words offer? They stood on the precipice of extinction; mere words could do nothing to bring them back.

"We will camp in the city tonight," Vrael said quietly, snapping the other two from their thoughts.

Brom glanced down at Oromis, and noticed the pained look upon his face. Even though the two of them could continue on towards the far mountains, Oromis was spent. The young Rider nodded and hefted Oromis onto his back. The elf, for his part, did not protest. It seemed whatever pride he'd had was wasted at seeing the remains of his order.

They began their trek into the city, slipping past the ruined gates and onto the High Street. Remarkably, many of the buildings still stood, with only a little indication of disrepair. Vrael supposed the warded walls had done a great deal to protect the interior of the city, but they had not protected it completely. At the center of the city had once stood the mighty Svellhjall, a monumental edifice of glass and crystal that had served as the citadel for the elders. Vrael himself had once called the place home. He could not see the towers from where they were, though he once surely could have. And as they arrived at the city center, the only remnants of the Svellhjall were miniscule shards of sparkling crystal and the sandy remains of incinerated glass.

But for Vrael, the greater loss was in knowing that Vroengard's expansive library had likely been lost as well. He would see for sure on the morrow, when they came to Moraeta's Spire, where the library had once been located. Thousands of years of history and teachings, gone in an instant. The training of the next generation would be vastly more difficult without it, but that was of little consequence when faced with the task of actually _finding_ the next generation. The more Vrael thought about it, the more his spirits fell. A monumental burden had been placed upon him, one he was not entirely certain he was fit to carry out.

"There," Brom suddenly exclaimed, nodding his head towards a building that appeared mostly intact. Vrael recognized it as one of their municipal buildings; a place where a select group of senior Riders had been responsible for maintaining the housing of all Apprentices, and organized the stationing of Riders out in the field. Now, it would serve as an acceptable shelter for the night, and nothing more.

The interior of the building was dark and dusty, much as Vrael had expected. The stone floors no longer gleamed, the way they once had, and the werelight sconces sat empty. " _Naina oransje geuloth un bollr_ ," Vrael said quietly. The werelights sprang to life, casting a dim orange glow over the entrance hall. Wooden chairs sat around the perimeter of the room, their pattern ceasing only when interrupted by the wide staircase that led to the second level. At either side of them sat an open room filled with shelves containing various scrolls. Vrael guessed that this building had been spared from damage by the Svellhjall, but, unfortunately, there wasn't much here that could help them in their endeavor to restore the Riders. No matter; it was a warm, dry place to bed down for the night, and that was enough.

Brom sat Oromis down gingerly in one of the chairs, grunting slightly when he was free of the elf's weight. The elf thanked him quietly and let his head fall back against the smooth, stone wall. "Do you need anything?" Brom asked, handing over his waterskin without prompting. Oromis took it and drank greedily, casting his former pupil a thankful gaze. He shook his head in response, and then Brom turned to face Vrael. "I'm going to return to the ship to gather the rest of the supplies. Don't expect me before nightfall."

Vrael nodded solemnly, gripping Islingr's hilt where it hung at his hip. "Take care, Brom-vodhr," he said in a low voice. "While the island may seem deserted, we cannot be sure until we reach the Vault and conduct a full scan of the area. Keep your eyes open and your wits about you."

"I will, Ebrithil," he replied, placing a hand over his chest and bowing slightly at the waist. With that, he slipped out the door and back into the deserted street. The two elves stood in silence for a long while. As Vrael kept the protection around Brom intact, he could feel as he ventured further away from the building.

"I worry for him," Oromis finally said, the strain apparent in his voice. Vrael looked over at him; the pain was also apparent in his face. "Gone is the carefree youth I once knew. A hardened man stands in his place... one bent on revenge."

"Brom has yet to tell me what transpired for his dragon to be killed," Vrael remarked, strolling towards the staircase and glancing up to the gallery above. "Was it Thuviel?"

Oromis made a strangled sort of whimper as he readjusted in the hard, wooden chair. "No," he forced out through gritted teeth, "no it was not the blast. Saphira was killed before then, in defense of her Rider... Brom tells me it was Morzan who dealt the blow; Morzan and his _beast._ "

Vrael bristled at that slightly, shooting a glance back at Oromis. It should not have come as a surprise, yet Vrael felt pity for Brom all the same. Betrayed by one he'd once called friend--brother, even... Vrael was beginning to understand the young Rider a bit better.

"In defense of her Rider, you say?" Vrael questioned further.

"Mmm," the other elf confirmed, sucking a breath through his teeth at some sudden spike of pain. "As I understand it," he continued once the pain had passed, "they were tracked down by Morzan intentionally. A great sword battle erupted between the two Riders, as their dragons fought one another. Morzan was always the better swordsman, but Brom is brash; you know this." Vrael grunted in agreement but allowed Oromis to continue. "When he was disarmed by Morzan, Brom was sure to be killed. Saphira abandoned her own battle to save his life, and in doing so, left herself open to attack from behind. When that beast had her pinned, Morzan plunged his cursed blade into her heart, all while Brom watched."

The Elder Rider suppressed a shudder. "Horrific," Vrael said quietly, closing his eyes as he processed this new information. "No wonder the boy is so full of pain and anger."

"Hence," Oromis said pointedly, "why I worry for him. Anger is a disease, one that consumes and infects beyond all recognition of former self. If he does not control it, I fear it may end up controlling him."

"Undoubtedly... Where did she die?"

Oromis sighed heavily before replying. "Near the arena, at Mount Istalri."

Vrael nodded slightly, though his mind had begun to wander. The Bay of Anurin, where their ship was currently docked, was to the south of them. Yet he could sense Brom moving off to the east, where he knew Mount Istalri lay nestled amongst a few higher peaks. He did not begrudge the boy this mission, for he knew that, had their positions been reversed, he would have done the same.

 

* * *

 

Brom could not help the tears that came to his eyes upon seeing the half-destroyed arena rise up before him. Before, the arena was unable to be viewed from the land, as the trees concealed it until the forest ended just shy of the mountains. But now, he was nearly a league away when the gigantic stone structure came into view.

The arena was where the Riders had tested their abilities in aerial maneuvers and both hand-to-hand and sword combat, as well as the hosting location for several annual tournaments of skill. Many a time, he and Saphira had competed in the games against their peers, rejoicing in their triumphs and wallowing in their defeats. It was here that they'd once bested Morzan and his dragon in a contest of flight maneuvers, a victory of great magnitude and pride. That all seemed so trivial now, as it had been here where Saphira had lost her life.

She had died here, in agony and despair... and it was all Brom's fault.

His feet caught on the rough ground as he quickened his pace, forgetting any tiredness he might have felt before. Half of the northern wall had crumbled apart, leaving the interior stands and field exposed. The canopy that had once stretched over the top had long since blown away, probably lost to the sea. Only two of the four towers remained standing, dull from the layers of ash and soot that coated them. Everywhere along the circular outer wall were burn marks from dragon fire and Thuviel's spell alike. A few of those marks, Saphira had dealt herself.

When he finally reached the pavilion that sat before the arena, his breath did not come easily to his chest. Whether it be from exertion or his roiling emotions, he could not be sure. Paving stones lay uprooted and scattered all along the pavilion; the stones that were still embedded in the ground were charred and cracked, crumbling away at the very edges. Most of the marble statues of great Riders that ringed the pavilion had been demolished, though one still stood somewhat intact nearer to the entrance. He recognized it as the statue of Eragon I, although half his face was now missing... how fitting.

Memories of the horrific day flooded back to him, feeling like a punch in the gut as they hit him. The sky had been alight with dragonfire and smoke; screams filled the air of those who lay dying; the acrid smell of burning flesh had assaulted his senses, causing his eyes to water. He and Saphira had landed in this very pavilion, the last time he'd sat upon her back as a Rider. If he looked close enough, he thought he could just pick out the gouges in the stone from where her claws had dug into the ground. It had been here where they'd made their final stand; here where they had been betrayed by the ones they'd loved most dearly.

A streak of red flame had coursed overhead, just barely missing them as it broke against the stone wall of the arena entrance. Brom had felt his presence before he saw him, recognizing his aura from countless days spent together, long gone by. He'd fought against Morzan bitterly, as Saphira fought against his dragon, but in the end... He had not been strong enough. Morzan had disarmed him quickly, and his life had flashed before his eyes. Brom hadn't meant to call out for her, but the instinct was too great... and Saphira, too selfless not to heed his call.

He walked in a daze along the broken ground, surveying the area around him. The ache in his heart led him to the spot where he knew he'd find her, resting where she'd fallen to another dragon's treachery. That beast had clamped down on her neck when her back had been turned. Brom remembered the sounds of her screams; they would echo in his mind and in his heart for eternity. When the red dragon had her pinned, Morzan had approached them, even as she struggled. Brom had begged her to stop, told her she was only furthering her injuries... but she would not listen. Her only concern had been for him.

"I want you to see this, Brom," he'd said, his every word dripping gleeful poison. "Listen to her screams as she dies, and know that you were too weak to save her."

Morzan held him bound--both physically and metaphysically--by some dark magic, and so he had been helpless to stop him. Brom's tears had burned his eyes, and the moment Zar'roc pierced her scales and dug through her flesh, the most inhuman scream was ripped from his throat. Ruby red slashed through sapphire blue, ripping through her heart and stealing her life-force. Scarlet blood had run down Morzan's blade, almost indistinguishable from its own crimson color. Her own scream was harrowing, but died quickly, long before Brom's did. It seemed to shake the very mountain, releasing a magical force such as he had never seen before. A gale of wind pushed the air around him flat, and only stilled when her head fell to the ground, serpentine tongue lolling against the stones.

The red dragon had released her then, looking to his master for appreciation. But Morzan's wicked smile was reserved only for Brom. It gave him joy, Brom knew, to see him so in pain. What had he done to inspire such hatred from one he'd called friend for so long? Or had he really been so blind to the darkness within Morzan's heart? Whatever the case had been, it didn't matter anymore. He had killed Brom's dragon, and for that, he would die.

A mound of bones and ash rose up before him, settled on the far southeast corner of the pavilion. Her blood still stained the stones, appearing through the ash in places where the wind had shifted it. A mixture of ash and soot had piled up over her bones, covering a majority of the skeleton. But her skull and parts of her ribcage were exposed to the elements, bleached white by the sun and covered in a fine layer of ash.

His knees hit the stone beneath him with a painful thud, causing him to grit his teeth. A guttural sob ripped from his chest, coming out in a sort of choking whimper more befitting of a wounded animal. Her empty eye sockets stared at him interminably, seeming to bore through to his soul.

"Saphira," he whispered through his sobs, reaching out tentatively and stroking one of her fangs. It was the length of a dirk, and not even the biggest one she'd possessed. Her neck spikes rose out of the ash ominously, a few of their tips broken off. To his disgust, a few hunks of rotting flesh still clung to the crown of her skull, but when he glimpsed the flash of a scale, something in his heart sang. Using the ancient language, he separated the scale from the flesh and cast a spell over it to keep it from decomposing any further. It was only half the size as her magnificent, sapphire scales once had been, but it was enough to ease a bit of the ache in his heart.

"I'm so sorry," he said quietly, tucking the scale into the pocket of his tunic. His placed his hand once more on the side of her skull, as he used to do when she was alive. Even now, faced with her lifeless skeleton, he could picture her as she had been. Magnificent and resplendent in her beauty; powerful; fearsome. She was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen, and had seen since. And because of him... she lay wasted before him.

Drawing in a deep breath, Brom began to craft a spell, closing his eyes to concentrate better. He was able to craft a sort of pocket in the air where he could store things, with endless amounts of room. Once the pocket had been created, he used the ancient language to gather what remained of her bones and store them in the magical place. Though they aimed to give the other Riders and dragons a proper burial, he could not imagine leaving Saphira in this desolate place. She deserved more than that.

The ground rumbled slightly as the skeleton rose into the air, little streams of ash rolling off it and back to the ground. Brom realized then that most of the delicate bones from her wings were gone, likely having been blasted off from Thuviel's spell. But the majority of her was there; even the smallest bit would have been enough. The bones floated gently through the air, compressed by his magic until they disappeared into the pocketed space. Once that was finished, Brom released a pent up breath, his shoulders sagging.

Slowly, and on trembling legs, he stood. "I swear to you," his said in a hard voice, clenching his fist, "you did not die in vain. I will finish what was begun here. By my blade, I swear it, I will strike Morzan down for what he has done." Tears continued to streak down his face, which he hastily wiped away with a dirty hand. No matter; he'd done what he came to do, and now he need never see this place in this way again.

Turning away from the arena, he began to trek back across the pavilion to return to their ship. Brom felt a bit lighter now that he'd retrieved her bones; a small sense of closure eked its way into his chest, making it a bit easier to walk. That feeling began to grow, gripping his heart and making a wide, unbidden smile break out over his face. It was strange though; this happiness seemed... somehow foreign to him, as though it was being imposed on him by someone else.

_What is happening?_ he asked himself, looking down at his hands. They were shaking uncontrollably, and he could not explain it. His legs suddenly felt heavy, so heavy that he could not compel them to move forward. In fact, his entire body felt like it was filled with stones. He looked around him, but found himself still completely alone. Eventually, the heaviness grew so great that he could no longer walk.

Muttering frantically in the ancient language, Brom attempted to undo whatever enchantment had been cast over him. But it seemed the more he wove his own spell, the heavier his body grew. He felt like he might fall through the very earth, drug down by his own weight until he reached the fiery pits of hell. Suddenly, a great roaring filled his ears, like the ocean waves during a fierce storm. With great effort, he managed to clamp his hands over his ears, but the sound did not dissipate. _It was in his mind._

A scream ripped from his throat, burning with its ferocity. Another scream joined his own, melding against his voice in perfect harmony. Yet this scream was markedly different from his own. Instead of terror, it was laced with pure, unadulterated joy.

And then, the most beautiful sound in the world filled his mind, like an empty cup receiving summerwine.

_Brom!_

The exclamation released the enchantment. He felt as though a string had been cut, and he rebounded into his own body, light as a feather. Brom's heart clenched at the sound of that voice, not believing his own mind. This was surely some trick, cast by some malevolent shade or spirit... wasn't it?

The voice came again, more insistent this time. _Brom!_ she screamed, battering against his mind with a fervor he'd never experienced. _I am here! Please, do not leave me again!_

He ran then, his earlier inhibitions completely forgotten. _Saphira!_ he shouted in bewilderment, stopping when he reached the ash pile he'd just liberated her skeleton from. Dropping to his knees, Brom began digging frantically through the ash with his hands, not even caring when it flew into his mouth and lungs, choking his breath. He coughed violently and continued in his endeavor. He tried to guess at where her rib cage had been, and focused his search there.

Finally, his hand brushed against something smooth and hard. Grasping it like a drowning man to a piece of driftwood, he drew the object out of the ash, squinting against the blinding, sapphire glow. He stroked it gently, marveling at the smooth planes that seemed to glow from within.

"Can this really be happening?" he questioned aloud, his voice sounding weak to his own ears. "Is it really you?"

_Took you long enough to find me, you dolt. I've been screaming for ages._ A laugh like a rumble of thunder filled his mind; a laugh that he had missed every day for the last year and a half.

_Saphira! Yes, that's you alright,_ he remarked fondly, holding the glittering Eldunari to his chest tightly. Never in his wildest dreams had he imagined finding such a gift as this. _How did this happen? I never thought..._

_You left too quickly, little one,_ she said, not unkindly. _I called for you, but your grief clouded your mind. It clouds you still. I thought you might never hear me._ A feeling like a nudge pressed against his mind, and it reminded him of how Saphira used to rub up against him, the way a cat would. She affirmed this was her intent, and he could not help the smile that broke across his face.

_I am so sorry, Saphira._ Brom choked on a sob, unable to continue until he swallowed it down. Shame overwhelmed him, weighing down upon his shoulders as Saphira's influence just had. _I do not know what else to say... other than assure you that if I had known,,,_ _if I'd had even an inkling--_ ”

_Hush now,_ the dragonesses soothed, rubbing up against his mind again. It was a sign of utmost affection from her, and one that Brom had dearly missed. _I know you would never leave me willingly. Though I must admit... At first, I was horribly angry at you. But, as I lay here helplessly, I came to understand that you had no choice. There was no chance for you to search for me, lest Morzan finished what he started._

_My chance to escape came quickly; I had to take it, for fear that it might slip away and never present itself again._

_And knowing what happened next..._ A dark feeling came over Brom's mind. _I am certainly glad you left when you did, little one. I thought for sure I might be destroyed in the blast, but I was strong in life... and even stronger in this second life._

_But... how did you--_ _? When did you disgorge your Eldunari? And why did you not tell me?_ Brom questioned hotly.

_Peace, Brom,_ she hissed back, washing him with a wave of annoyance. _The deception was not meant as a personal affront to your character. Before we left for Vroengard, Glaedr advised me to disgorge, in case something happened to me. I heeded his advice and concealed the gem within my saddlebags. If we'd both made it out of Doru Araeba alive, I would have entrusted it to you. But, as it turns out... we both did not._ This last statement echoed with unfathomable sadness, so much so that tears pricked at Brom's eyes. _It's a good thing I did, no?_ she continued cheekily.

Brom smirked slightly, standing and placing Saphira into his pack. _I cannot express to you how good it is to have you back. I'd thought you lost forever._

_It is wonderful to have you back as well, little one._ She hummed softly and sent him feelings of love. _Now,_ she continued quickly, _if you'll follow my directions, I have a surprise for you._

_Surprise?_ Brom questioned, but she only laughed and sent him a mental image of a grove of trees, somewhere to the south of them. Since she seemed not in a mood to explain any further, he began the trek away from the pavilion and the arena. A place which had once only served as a monument to his suffering had, in a single instant, become the place of his most profound joy. But in spite of that, his hatred for Morzan and desire for vengeance was not sated. He had still betrayed him, and murdered thousands of people; crimes for which he would dearly pay. Brom only rejoiced that he no longer had to seek revenge alone. Though becoming Indlvarn would be a process for both of them, Brom would accept it readily. It was better than not having Saphira, the one whom he treasured above all others, at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woooow this became super long. Thank you so much for reading! Please review and let me know what you think! :D   
> P.S. (In regards to the "radiation" that pollutes the island in canon: There is some contention amongst the community about whether a reaction with the radioactive fallout that Paolini described could be achieved by converting organic mass to energy so... I've decided not to include the fallout in this AU. Instead, the island was mostly leveled by the explosion and there is a gravitational field surrounding the island that makes it very difficult for life to exist.)


	5. Standing on the Precipice

The trees Saphira had shown him were long gone, having been destroyed by Thuviel's spell. But it appeared in her mind's eye the way it was when she was alive in her body. Lush, vibrant green leaves stretched from thick limbs and sturdy branches. A family of woodlarks made their home in a wide nest built from the smaller twigs of the tree. The air was fragrant with the scent of the tree's small, pink blossoms; little buds of pollen floated through the hazy spring air, dancing in the streams of sunlight that pierced through the canopy.

As the memory faded away, Brom stood facing what was now a barren field, littered with a few charred stumps here and there. It was a place they'd once frequented, seeking solitude in the serenity of the forest. He remembered it well, and felt a hollow ache in his chest at the loss of such beauty. There had been numerous spots just like it all over the island, all lost to the inferno of desperation... But this spot had been theirs, unknown to any others who inhabited the island.

_Well..._ Saphira remarked dryly, looking through Brom's eyes at the devastation all around them. _It certainly does look different. You'll find your surprise just there, where the grove used to be, though you may need to root amongst the ashes._

_Something I'm sure I'll become very used to in the coming days,_ he replied with a small smile. Saphira's Eldunarí radiated warmth inside his pack, and her laughter echoed throughout his mind. It was the most beautiful thing he'd heard in a very long time.

_Oh, Brom,_ she remarked with a note of fondness, _I have missed your wit. The other Eldunarya are painfully dull; Umaroth is the worst of them. So dour... and humorless, much like his Rider._

Brom grit his teeth as he walked, eyes focused on a dark ring of ashes that stood out against the landscape. _Believe me, Saphira, I am well acquainted with Umaroth's_ humorless _Rider. Vrael-elda has only become more withdrawn since the Fall, I'm afraid. And Oromis-elda is not as you remember him either. The world is very much changed..._

_As I expected,_ she said, softer this time. _A world without dragons... Sounds like a terrible place._

_Aye, it is. There is much you have missed, Saphira; I have so much to tell you. The Forsworn, they_ —

_Brom!_ she shouted with a slight laugh. _There will be plenty of time for all that later. I'm not going anywhere... I promise._ She sent him an image of her wing folding over top of him and her tail snaking around the both of them; the equivalent of a dragon hug.

_Very well,_ he conceded begrudgingly. He was standing in the middle of the phantom grove, looking in every direction as far as his eyes could see. Beneath his feet, a mountain of ashes and debris rose up off the soil, shifting with his every step like sand upon a beach.

_Best get to it,_ Saphira chirped merrily, nudging him with her mind.

He smiled at her joy and dropped to his knees, sending a cloud of dust into the air. As his hands dug through the detritus, Brom coughed away the silt that clogged his lungs and rubbed his eyes against his sleeves. _The first step in rebuilding this island,_ he thought to himself, _will be to get rid of all this damn soot!_

_Careful, Brom,_ Saphira replied darkly, rumbling slightly. _This 'soot', as you call it, is all that remains of my brothers and sisters... and yours, for that matter. Do not be so callous._

Sighing heavily, Brom sat back on his heels and stared up at the sky. _Forgive me, Saphira,_ he said quietly, _I did not..._ His head fell and Brom tucked his chin into his chest. _I will admit, I_ have _grown callous without you... You are my heart; the one who reminds me of the good in this world, and focuses my gaze on what's right. In your absence... I allowed my lust for vengeance to consume my every thought, until it was the only identity I had left. No longer Brom Holcombsson; not a Rider... I was nothing._

_That will never be true,_ she chided, not unkindly. _It grieves me to think of how you suffered alone, Brom. But that's all done now. We are together once more, and whatever is to come, we will face it as one._

Brom basked in the overwhelming feelings of love she began to shower him in, pressing a fist against his chest as the hole there began to fill with her tenderness. His eyes opened, ringed with tears that blurred his vision... but the glint of sunlight against metal and gemstone was unmistakable. Hastily, Brom wiped away the tears and cleared away a bit more of the ash that encrusted the object. As his hands moved more quickly, the beating of his heart rapidly increased.

"This cannot be," he mumbled aloud to himself, wrapping his hand around the hilt of the blade and pulling it up out of its forgotten grave. The aquamarine brightsteel blade shimmered in the afternoon sun, sending ripples of light over his face and onto the ground. The gemstone set into the pommel mimicked the color of the sky, sparkling with flares of light as the sun refracted off its many facets.

_Undbitr, restored to its former master, as it should be,_ Saphira said in a grandiose tone.

_How did you know where to find it?_ Brom asked incredulously, running his palm along the flat of the blade and clearing away the last of the ash that clung to the brightsteel.

_Well, I had a lot of time to kill while I waited for you to return..._ He smiled at the cheek in her voice and continued inspecting his long-lost blade. _There is quite a large store of energy still in that gem,_ she continued. _It was only a matter of time before I detected it and recognized what exactly it was._

_Thank you for leading me to it, Saphira,_ he said softly, tracing the dark rune at the base of the blade, spelling out the sword's name in the Ancient Language. _To have you restored to me, as well as my blade... I am beginning to feel like my old self once more._

_Well, you'll need to have a new sheath made, but I do what I can._

Brom stood out of the ash and undid his belt, tying a portion of it around the handle of his blade, and buckling it once more. He hoped he would not have need of it just yet on this desolate island, but his dagger was close at hand if he needed to free the blade quickly. _A sheath is of little consequence in comparison to a Rider's sword,_ Brom replied, shouldering his pack and heading back in the direction of the Bay of Anurin. _If you can believe it, Rhunön swore never to make another Rider's sword again after the Fall. I begged her to forge me another, but she refused._

_A sentiment I can understand,_ Saphira remarked. _Such destruction wrought with weapons of her own making..._ A feeling akin to a shudder coursed down Brom's spine, disorienting him slightly and making him stumble.

_The killing was not the weapon's doing,_ Brom continued once he'd recovered. _Now the monsters that wield the blades... that is another matter._

 

* * *

 

Glittering jewels of every shade shimmered under the white werelight, casting beams of light against the stone walls of the vault. There had to be hundreds of them, all placed intentionally in horizontal stands set into the walls, which reached fifty feet into the air. Down the middle of the room was a long stretch of stone shaped into a perfect rectangle, dark in color and polished until it gleamed. Atop the stone were three stands set apart, all of them empty.

Morzan did not know which Rider's swords were intended to be put on display here, nor did he care. This entire room reeked of Galbatorix's vanity; a shrine to his achievements as a madman. And what had those achievements won him in the end? Nothing but a tarnished name and a severed head.

Every blade here had once belonged to a Rider that had been slain either by Galbatorix's own hand, or by his will. Several of them, Morzan had ended himself. But he took no joy in surveying the spoils of his victories; all he saw before him was a waste of good brightsteel. Without Riders to wield them, what good were they anyways?

He stood in the hall just outside the vault, gripping the pommel of Zar'roc where it hung at his hip. The vaults were his least favorite place to come. They were dirty and dark, and the only people who came down here were trying to hide something. His Master of Shadows was the one who reported on all those within the citadel, telling him of their comings and goings and the deepest secrets they wished to keep hidden. Morzan wanted no part of it, and took no pleasure inhabiting this shadowy place.

A cord seemed to snap in his mind, setting his awareness on edge. The shadows were pressing all around him, edging closer with greedy fingers. A strange hissing noise filled the air, overwhelming his senses. The hairs at the back of his neck stood straight up, keenly aware of his surroundings. A growl bubbled up in his chest. He rolled his eyes, releasing that growl like some forest beast.

"Call off your dogs," he seethed, speaking into the emptiness. Laughter like a delicate bell echoed ominously from the shadowy corners of the corridor. As the laughter died, the shadows slowly receded and the hissing quieted.

"What are you doing sulking down here?" the voice belonging to the laugh came from behind him, setting his spine straight as a board. It seemed to caress the air around him, smooth as silk and echoing with warmth. It was not difficult to guess at who had snuck up on him; only one of his Forsworn preferred to spend most of their time in the dank underbelly of the citadel. Morzan's most glittering servant spent all of her time wreathed in darkness; how ironic...

"Not sulking," he breathed, trying to maintain his calm. It was not every day that he was caught unawares, and he especially hated to be caught by _her_. "Contemplating... What are you doing following me?"

Aelia seemed to materialize out of the shadows, shimmering as she appeared in front of him with her signature simper plastered on her unnaturally pretty face. Morzan relied on the fact that she was especially gifted at shadow-magic—it was part of the reason he'd recruited her to join the Forsworn in the first place—and wagered that her otherworldly attractiveness was due, in part, to some glamor. But he would credit her this: it was an effective way of disarming men.

Just not him.

"Not following," she quipped back playfully, clasping her hands behind her and stepping around him in a lazy circle. Her full mouth drew upwards into a smirk. "Did you know the shadows down here have many secrets to tell? They like to whisper to me... Gives them something to do."

Eyes like liquid silver flashed under the werelight, giving her a ghostly appearance. But that was the only thing about her that was phantom-like. Her hair was a lustrous shade of chestnut brown—shot through with tendrils of red and gold that shimmered like strands of fire—which reached past her waist in a tumble of soft waves. Her form was lithe, but curved in a way that drew the eye exactly where she wanted it to; petite, yet somehow strong. A mouth like a rosebud, in both shape and color, curled into an amused smile as he watched her, reveling in the attention.

"Do they tell you anything interesting?" he finally asked, following her movement with his eyes until she was out of his sight. He would not deign to turn for her. Morzan could feel her behind him, stepping slowly on bare feet that padded quietly against the stone floor. She seemed to him like a wild cat, stalking its prey and determining how best to pounce. It was a game she liked to play; pushing him as far as she dared to get a reaction out of him.

When he could once again see her out of the corner of his eye, she finally answered him. "Oh, they mostly speak of secrets belonging to men and women long dead. But, once in a long while, they do report on some rather... _interesting_ comings and goings."

Morzan pulled his mouth into a sneer, turning his head only slightly to look at her more clearly. "I care not for the clandestine trysts of the others," he scoffed, raising an eyebrow. "They are free to do as they wish, so long as it does not impede their ability to follow orders."

"They know that," she said with a slight smirk, fingering a silver medallion she wore about her neck. The pendant was set with a black gemstone of some kind, encircled by smaller stones of the same color. "The shadows were quite surprised to see you down here today, my lord. Hence... why I came to see what all the fuss was about."

She finally stopped directly in front of him, seeming to balance on the tips of her toes as she gazed up at him. He tossed a lock of his dark hair out of his eyes, aiming for flippancy. The look she gave him indicated he had failed in some way; those eyes pierced through him like a dagger, laying bare everything he kept locked inside. She was the most unsettling woman he'd ever known... it was unfathomable to think she was a human.

Or rather, she had been, at one time. Whether it be from the magic of becoming a Rider, or some other unholy means, the creature that stood before him now had long since shed her humanity. Beneath that glittering exterior lurked a heart of darkness, one that Morzan made constant note to keep an eye on. He could trust the loyalty of the others—well, most of them—but Aelia was a loose cannon. However calm she seemed, Morzan knew there was always some plot swirling just below the surface.

"The fuss," he finally explained, speaking slowly, "you may attribute to Tovar."

A slender, perfectly groomed eyebrow shot up high over the other, giving her face an uncharacteristically surprised look. That look faded almost as quickly as it came, but did not escape Morzan's notice. Aelia swayed backwards on her heels, looking up at him from under long, dark lashes.

"And what misstep has Tovar made to convince his king into making a visit to the vaults?" she questioned innocently.

_Master of Shadows indeed..._ Morzan thought with just a little self-satisfaction. She seemed to be lacking in her duties, not knowing exactly why he was here. He rolled his shoulders back and gazed past her into the sword vault. "This is a mission of reward, not of punishment."

"Hmm," she hummed softly, looking back over her shoulder into the vault as well. Her silver tunic shimmered with the movement, swishing against her black velvet breeches. "I did not think you capable of bestowing rewards, Your Majesty. Tovar is very fortunate indeed."

Morzan bristled only slightly at her impudence, but ultimately settled on ignoring it. "This reward is one of necessity, as it were," he replied, brushing past her and walking under the stone archway into the vault. He could hear her tip-toeing in behind him, keeping a few paces back. "You may remember that Tovar lost his blade many months ago. An unfortunate incident, which earned him more than a few lashes. It has taken him this long to prove to me that he is worthy of another."

"The subjugation of Dras-Leona," Aelia remarked wistfully, shifting her gaze up and down the walls. "The others tell me it was a monumental struggle, and Tovar was instrumental in ending the battle."

"Here I was thinking that three Riders would be enough..." Morzan heaved a sigh, gazing up a column of swords. "No matter, it is done. And now Tovar may have his wish. If nothing else, I need him at his strongest, which means supplying him with a blade of highest quality. Gods know there's no other use for these bloody things." This last statement he muttered to himself, huffing out an irritated sigh.

"He prefers the falchion, my lord." Morzan did not wonder at how she knew this, but nodded all the same. Aelia certainly had her uses—and those uses were _extremely_ varied—even if she irritated him most of the time.

Morzan began to walk the perimeter of the vault, inspecting the swords as he went. Each had been custom made for its Rider, suited to the style, weight, and edge that they desired. Rhunön, the elven smith, had also imbued them with a color to match the scales of their dragon. A wickedly sharp falchion caught his eye in the corner of the room, situated halfway up the wall and directly under a werelight sconce. Gingerly, he lifted the sword from its stand and inspected it under the light. The color was a dark blue—so dark, it was almost black—and not a true match to Tovar's dragon, which leaned more towards indigo. But it was close enough, and beggars did not have the luxury of choice.

"This will do," he said, running a calloused thumb over the silver rune on the flat of the blade.

Aelia was suddenly at his shoulder, peering down at the weapon with an inquisitive gleam in her eyes. " _Mærr_ ," she said quietly, uttering the name as if it were the most beautiful word she'd ever heard. "'Noble'... how fitting."

"Do you know the Rider it belonged to?"

Her unsettling silver eyes raked over the blade before shifting up to his face. "Rindava, Rider of Garren," she stated plainly, as though reciting her lessons. But then her mask of passivity shifted, her face suddenly transformed into a gleeful look, though it was edge with something sinister. "I killed her myself. She begged for mercy, at the end... Not so noble after all, it seems."

Against his will, Morzan's mouth pulled up into a smirk as a sudden thought struck him. Aelia had her little games, but so did he. That manic look in her eyes ignited something within him, a sudden urge to see her calm shattered and have her cowering before him. Twisting the falchion with blinding speed, the edge of the blade flashed as it sliced through the air and came to rest at the base of Aelia's throat. Her body stood stock still, though her eyes continued to rove over his face, as they always did. All the same, Morzan's blood began to pump wildly at having caught her so off guard.

"Well done, my lord," she said evenly, her usual smile nowhere to be found. "But you seem to have forgotten the first rule of close quarter combat."

Morzan scoffed lightly. "And what is that?" he hissed, inching his face closer to hers. "Because from where I stand, you are dangerously close to losing your head."

"And _you_ ," she hissed back, "are dangerously close to losing something far more precious." The point of a dagger pressed against his groin, firm enough to make its presence known but not hard enough to pierce his leather pants. With just the slightest bit of chagrin, Morzan admitted that he had not noticed her dagger, but the fact that he'd caught her unawares was enough to keep his smile in place.

Taking a small step back, he removed the blade from her throat, huffing out a laugh. Aelia sheathed her dagger in her belt, positioning it beneath her tunic at the small of her back. Morzan watched with mild interest as she rolled her shoulders, and just like that, the façade was back in place. Her mouth spread into an easy smile, and her eyes seemed to sparkle with intensity.

"Take this to Tovar, would you?" he questioned, handing over the blade by the hilt.

She inclined her head in obeisance and took the proffered sword, gripping the leather-wrapped handle tightly. "Of course, Your Majesty," she replied magnanimously, treating his question as a request while knowing it was the furthest thing from it. Aelia turned quickly, her voluminous hair swaying behind her like a waterfall as she sauntered out of the vault on silent feet. Morzan watched her go, straightening his black leather jerkin. "Oh, I nearly forgot to mention," she suddenly said, stopping just past the vault door and turning back to him. But she said no more, presumably for dramatic effect.

"What is it Aelia?" Morzan asked wearily, clenching his fist. He'd had just about enough of her games for today.

She smiled mischievously, tracing a finger down her jawline. "The shadows told me to tell you... There's an old section of the library, dating back to the time of the elves. You might find some tomes of... _particular interest_ there." Aelia winked lazily and let out a very girlish giggle before turning once more and skipping out into the corridor. Morzan watched as she vanished into the shadows of the hallway before she reached the end, nothing at all to indicate she'd ever been there.

If there was any one of the Forsworn he'd need to keep an eye on, it was Aelia Birasdaughter. Sometimes, he thought she only remained loyal to their cause so that she could observe what she deemed as "interesting events". Yet other times, she seemed wholly devoted to their mission. Her unpredictable nature was what made her simultaneously a lethal enemy and a fickle ally, neither of which Morzan could afford. But he had little choice; he needed her ability to slip in and out of places unseen. If the Riders who'd survived the Fall were planning something, he would need her to spy for him.

No... he could not afford to lose Aelia's fealty. And if that meant suffering her antics and flirtations, then so be it. Morzan gazed around the vast room, gripping the ruby-set pommel of his own Rider's sword as he looked at all the others. Letting out a heavy breath, he strode past the empty altar and left the vault, uttering a few words to seal the door once more. This stockpile would certainly have some use to him, but its contents were not nearly as intriguing as the contents of the vault just down the hall.

But that would have to wait. For now, he would heed Aelia's words, although he knew better than to press her on whatever else she might know about these mysterious volumes she spoke of. Whatever lay hidden in the stacks of the library, he would ferret it out. Perhaps it held the key to restoring what was lost, and ushering in a new age of power and dominance for his Riders; his Forsworn. The ancient wisdom of the elves may yet hold the key to the future of his dreams.

 

* * *

 

Vrael could have wept upon seeing the ruins of what was once the greatest library in the known world. A portion of Moraeta's Spire, nearly two-hundred feet in height, still stood, but the buildings that had stood nearby were nothing more than rubble. It was folly, he knew, to hope that any piece of the library had survived, but he hadn't been able to help it. After their miserable night in the municipal building, it would have been a miracle beyond all reckoning.

In the grand scheme of things, he supposed, it didn't matter. The Vault of Souls was the only thing that mattered now. As long as the treasure within had remained untouched, everything else could be rebuilt. Vrael could see the Rock of Kuthian from their vantage point, a little ways south of the library on a hill that had once been covered in forest.

"Shall we?" he questioned aloud to his companions. Brom was carrying Oromis, the latter still being too weak to walk the great distance from Doru Araeba to the Vault. The younger Rider nodded and began to make his way down the hill alongside the Elder Rider.

Their trek was slow going, but the three of them eventually made it to the edge of the spire. Brom stopped and set Oromis down on his feet, leaning up against a crumbling bench to catch his breath. "I'll keep watch while you two go inside," he said after taking a draught from his waterskin. "If anyone is lurking about, this would be the perfect opportunity to ambush us. Though where they might be hiding..."

Oromis nodded slowly, casting Vrael a look. They had not told the younger Rider of the protections placed around the Rock. It was not that they did not trust the boy—far from it, actually—but the key to entering the Vault was not something they wished to become public knowledge. The fewer people that knew, the better it would be.

"We'll not be long," Oromis said to his former pupil. With a great deal of difficulty, the elf began walking towards the spire alongside Vrael, keeping his eyes trained on the Rock.

Vrael's body seemed to hum with anticipation. _Not much longer now,_ he said through his bond with Umaroth, sensing his dragon's consciousness just beyond the thick stone door and deep beneath the mountain. This place had been the perfect choice for shielding the eggs and Eldunarí from harm, but the protections placed around it had made it difficult for Umaroth and Vrael to communicate effectively. A feeling like a rainstorm washed over him, illuminating Umaroth's relief at their arrival.

The two elves approached the Rock carefully, gazing up at the jagged stone edifice. Vrael exhaled a deep breath and squared his shoulders. Within his own mind, he uttered his true name, taking many moments as the name spanned several sentences. Each facet of his long, arduous life laid out in the ancient language like a scroll. It had changed recently, accounting the Fall of the Riders and the great sorrow he'd experienced at their defeat, but the essence of him was still the same. Judicious; wise and ancient; unfailingly fair, but with high expectations of those amongst his order... the list went on and on. As he finished reciting his name, Oromis began to recite his own. The name was not quite as long as Vrael's, and contained many different traits that Vrael knew he himself would never posses. When he was done, they waited patiently for the lines to appear, marking the broad double doors that were inset into the stone. Golden glyphs depicting the wards upon the Vault appeared, glowing brightly and then fading to a dull dim.

Screeching as the stone was freed, the doors swung outward on hidden hinges, releasing a cloud of dust and ash as they scraped against the ground. After a few moments, the cloud cleared and the doors came to a stop. Without an ounce of trepidation, the two elves stepped into the long, vaulted tunnel that would lead them to the Vault. Vrael could feel Brom watching them curiously, but he made no move to follow. Once they were clear of the threshold, the doors swung closed once more. He directed a thought to Brom not to be worried, and they continued on into the darkness. Vrael conjured a white werelight to illuminate their path, keeping his eyes trained ahead.

The future that lay before them was clouded, but with the contents of this Vault having been safely hidden away, they had a chance to start again. As the end of the tunnel approached, glowing with the light of the magma pit, Vrael's pulse began to race. Oromis stumbled slightly on the knobby ground, but maintained his balance well enough. They passed under the glyph-carved arch and entered the Vault, gazing around at the quiet space.

It was exactly as he remembered it last, having remained untouched. That thought brought him comfort, and he found himself able to release some of the tension that had found its way into his spine and shoulders.

"They are still here," he whispered hoarsely through his relief, scanning the tiers that held the dragon eggs they'd managed to cache here. There had been so many... and they'd managed to save so few. The Eldunarí glittering in their alcoves all along the walls began to buzz at recognizing the Elder Rider. Cuaroc, the metal dragon-man Silvarí had conjured as a defender for the Vault, approached them with thundering steps, weapon securely sheathed at his side. Pounding a seamless arm against his broad chest, the creature came to a halting stop and inclined his head at the two of them.

_Well met, my old friend,_ Umaroth's voice boomed throughout the cavern. A chorus of humming voices droned underneath his words, rising and falling like the tides of the oceans. _It has been too long. Your arrival has been greatly anticipated._

_Apologies,_ Vrael replied to the gathered Eldunarí, _that we were not able to come sooner. The world is greatly changed, and it was not yet safe._

Oromis looked around, trying to conceal the tears glimmering in his eyes. But Vrael would not have condemned him for it; he understood the overwhelming emotion the other elf was experiencing in that moment. Their comrades had been destroyed—slaughtered and butchered like cattle at market—yet their salvation sat before them now, pristine and untouched.

_Let us delay no longer,_ Vrael said to them all, inhaling deeply. _There is much work to be done._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be a time jump in the next chapter, but I will make it clear where we are jumping to. Let me know what you thought! :D


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